


Ghost Team

by CyrilOdahviing



Category: Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon, Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:53:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyrilOdahviing/pseuds/CyrilOdahviing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When things go FUBAR, there is only one unit the military can call upon: Company D, 1st Battalion, 5th Special Forces Group; or better known as the Ghost Recon. So after the events of Mission City, who else can General Morshower count on to make up the difference in NEST? Why, Spectre team, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dossier: Spectre Team

**Author's Note:**

> Random updates. First chapter is a mere prologue, showing the dossiers. If there are inconsistencies in the rankings or any other errors, do PM me or leave a comment. Would like to polish this as much as possible.

General Morshower rubbed his forehead as he reviewed the files he was given. It was late at night, and he was pretty sure that he was the only one left in the office on the Diego Garcia base. 

 

Oakes Sableson, male, age 35. Team leader, former Green Beret and ranger. Master tactician and strategist. Codename Spectre Lead.

 

Kriemhilde Eisenberg, female, age 27. Expert marksman and tech specialist; former pilot in USAF. Codename Mask.

 

Ailen Binesi, male, age 30. Communications expert, former ranger. Codename Thunderbird.

 

Randel Everett, male, age 29. Heavy arms specialist, explosives expert, former Sapper, former EOD. Codename Boomer.

 

These men and woman had impressive backgrounds, and the woman was a surprising addition. He knew that this particular group were very picky in their selection process. To date, out of the 15 different squads, only 3 had females inside, and even then only a maximum of one per group. Though he was also surprised when he saw the former Sapper in their ranks as well; this team was made for intense combat, more so than their reconnaissance focused brothers-in-arms. Perfect for the kind of job that they were recommended to do. 

 

NEST was low on personnel, having only been started a few months before. Special Forces refused to relinquish more than 2 squads, and the regulars were not much help either. The army agreed to assign 2 battalions to the new organisation, and the air force sent about 3 squadrons of planes and choppers over. The Navy told the general that they could spare the ships and marines if the situation really called for it, but the Autobots and their enemies did battle on land, which was not exactly the forte of the Navy.

 

Then to the general’s ultimate surprise, the military’s greatest secret sent 4 dossiers over, a single team, but from what he knew of the shadow division, one team did the job of 10. Especially this particular destruction specialised team. 

 

He had to approve the proposals in less than a week for the team to be sent over in time to accustom themselves to the base, and he already knew what his answer was. He opened his special communications system that he shared with the leader of the secret division, piling the dossiers into a stack as he heard the other side pick up.

 

“General Morshower,” he stated his name and rank.

 

“Comm Specialist 3-Charlie-5-5-Hotel-Italy. Go ahead, general.”

 

“Send the team over.”

 

“Acknowledged, sir. They will arrive at the port in a week. We will communicate more information in 5 days.”

 

“Good.”


	2. An Everyday Mission

Stationed at the rear of the quad, Mask switched her vision to Magnetic and propped her sniper rifle on the balustrade, her eyes keen and her ears sharp for Ghost Lead’s signal. A large yellow diamond surrounded a man to the very corner of her vision, and she shifted appropriately, mentally calculating the distance between her and her target.

 

“Mask, I need you to double up,” Spectre Lead’s baritone voice.

 

“Mark it,” she replied, using her 12x magnification scope to see that both her targets were within 5 feet of each other; a petty distance to a master sniper. “On your shot.”

 

Her finger was light on the trigger, but she knew she had to act fast to nail both of them, and her semi-auto trigger had to be pulled twice in quick succession. Not a second later, she saw the first bullet, from Spectre Lead’s silenced AKR, pass through his target’s head, she pulled the trigger, sending one high calibre round through her own target’s head, then shifted her rifle minutely to nail the other one. In a span of a heartbeat, all five men went down without a sound, allowing the quad to continue with their mission.

 

Thunderbird waited for her as Boomer went on ahead with Spectre Lead. This was how they always went; in pairs. The duo jogged to catch up with the others, Spectre Lead stopping as Thunderbird suddenly spoke up, “Incoming transmission from base.”

 

“Patch it through.”

 

“Spectre, this is Overlord, do you copy?”

 

“I read you loud and clear, Overlord.”

 

“You need to speed up the mission, we have received intel that your target is getting ready to flee. We have far support, but it better not come to that.”

 

“Roger. Proceeding now,” Spectre Lead nodded and both Thunderbird and Mask hefted up their sniper rifles. It would take the both of them to pick off all of the guard detail surrounding their target, and now it was time to do what they did best. Cause utter mayhem.

 

Spectre Lead burst into a sprint, the rest of his team following him as they approached the coordinates Overlord had given them. Boomer had his grenade launder primed and ready for the order to strike, and his two snipers were ready to put some bullets through heads. Ducking behind a metal container, Spectre Lead saw his men spread out, his two snipers at the back, and called out his order, “Go hot.”

 

Immediately, four men went down silently, drawing the attention of the others. Their target immediately ran for the transport that was conveniently waiting behind, the supplies still in the midst of being loaded before the Ghosts came, but its engine rumbled nonetheless and was ready to go.

 

“Boomer, destroy that transport!”

 

“Affirmative,” the heavyset man acknowledged and switched to his rocket launcher, priming a single rocket which hurtled into the transport and sent it up in flames, a few of the men who were nearby were also killed by the blast. Spectre Lead knew that their target was dead, as the transport had exploded into flames, from which heat could be felt all the way to where Boomer was crouched. 

 

“Take out the stragglers,” he called out even as he gunned one down. Two shots answered him and three men went down, one unlucky guy getting nailed as he dashed behind one of the snipers’ targets. 

 

“Two left,” Mask called.

 

“Roger,” Spectre Lead replied and tossed a grenade over his cover, the resulting detonation and two screams telling him that the battlefield was clear.

 

“Clear,” Thunderbird stood up from his crouch, rolling his shoulders as he and Mask made their way over to Boomer and Spectre Lead.

 

“Overlord, target is down. Heading to extraction now,” Spectre Lead connected his comm to the control centre, their ‘handler’ replying back an affirmative even as the four soldiers quickly made their way to the designated extraction point. They knelt down in a circle, Thunderbird keeping the comm link open as the other three watched for the arrival of the black hawk that was supposed to bring them home. 

 

Thunderbird switched back to his assault rifle, checking his mag as he spoke up, “You heard the news right?”

 

“That we’re transferring? Yeah,” Spectre Lead grunted, switching back to normal vision as he searched the skies for their transport.

 

Boomer looked over his shoulder at their leader, “But not where we’re being transferred to. Asked Overlord after our last mission, and he said he couldn’t say.”

 

“It is likely he doesn’t know,” Mask replied their sapper, her sharp eyes roaming the rooftops for any surprise gunmen or RPGs. “The last time this happened…”

 

“Was when we were transferred to Ghost Recon,” Thunderbird muttered under his breath, his mind working at light speed as he tried to figure out what was going on.

 

They heard a snort, and looked over to see that Boomer’s shoulders were shaking. He was laughing, or snickering, whichever, “Well, they gotta be some pretty big targets for us to be sent. We’re the cavalry, remember?”

 

“Heh,” Spectre Lead grinned widely under his face wrap and tac shades. “No doubt about that, Boomer.” The 4-man Ghost Recon team call-signed 'Spectre' was the renowned back up plan for the small regiment that made up the Ghost Recon, the ones that Command called in when no one else can get the job done. Armed with heavy weapons and unique talents, Spectre Team was not meant for recon missions or subtle operations, they went in guns blazing, and leave nothing in their wake but flaming bits of steel and bodies. But their Commander, Scott Mitchell, made sure that Spectre Team was so obscure and secret, that on most missions Mask operated her own Blackhawk, with Thunderbird riding shotgun, and the entire armed forces always thought that a sapper squad was sent instead of the Ghost team. Scott Mitchell did select only the best to be in the Ghost Recon, after all.

 

Not a moment later, Thunderbird raised a hand to his tac com, “They’re less than a klick out. Watch for our bird.”

 

A resounding grunt from his team mates acknowledged his comment and Ghost Lead’s eyes locked onto a black speck in the distance, “Time to go home, boys.”


	3. Chapter 3

Safely in the Blackhawk and on their way back to base, Spectre Lead sighed and removed his helmet and shades, sliding his face mask down to breathe in the fresh air. He turned his eyes from watching the scenery flash by, and observed his team drinking up and resting after their mission. 12 hours in enemy territory, with nothing but their weapons, ammo and tech on their person. No 50 pound backpacks that the rest of the army carries, no extra weight to pull them down, but instead are laden with technology the world has yet to see. Active camouflage, futuristic heads up displays, long range communication devices, and sophisticated UAV drones to acquire battlefield intelligence. 

 

Ailen Binesi, or Thunderbird as he was known as, rubbed his shot fuzz, wiping off the sweat on his camo pants, a hand still on his M110 as though ready in case of an emergency. Captain Ailen Binesi was formerly of the elite group of Rangers, and fought in the Afghanistan wars. With almost 12 years of combat experience under his belt, Capt Binesi was also renowned for his creative means to get access to any and all communications, once hacking an enemy’s tac com to listen in, as well as piggy backing their coded coordinates for an air strike.

 

To his right sat Boomer, or better known as Randel Everett, their sapper specialist and heavy weapon expert. Sergeant Major Randel Everett was the lowest ranked of them all, but rank did not denote ability, as he was able to ingeniously get rid of any and all armoured vehicles without the need to call for far support. Graduating at the top of his class at Sapper School, SGM Everett enlisted in the military when he was 18, fresh out of high school, and immediately applied for Sapper school after basic training. He served in Egypt and Afghanistan with the Sappers, and caught the eye of the Ghosts when he set up makeshift minefields to ambush a convoy of Humvees and two tanks with only a ¼ pound of C4 and some wires. After his tour in Afghanistan, Randel signed up to be a Navy EOD, and had just finished his training when Ghost Recon picked him up.

 

Next to Ailen was Mask, their femme fatale Kriemhilde Eisenberg, an infamous pilot in the USAF. 1st Lt Eisenberg gained her notoriety as the pilot with only one goal in a dogfight: to confuse the hell out of her enemy. She was the master of high G turns and falls, and often her enemies ran themselves into the ground trying to evade or chase her. But despite all this, Kriemhilde got the Ghosts’ attention after being shot down over Afghanistan, where she survived and evaded capture for 3 weeks with nothing but her flightsuit and beretta pistol on her person. She raided a hidden weapons cache that was probably meant for guerrilla fighters, and defeated a squadron of 10 fighters with a pilfered MSR and 12 bullets with 2 rounds left to spare. After her little stint in enemy territory, she was recruited for army sniper training, and had gained her patch when Ghost team had her transferred.

 

Spectre Lead himself, or Oakley Sableson, was a former Ranger and Green Beret, and was in fact Ailen’s instructor during ranger school. Major Sableson was highly trained in stealth and reconnaissance missions, but found that he was flexible with whatever mission he was given. In fact, in Afghanistan, he led a stealth team to assassinate a high profile lieutenant as well as a weapons dealer, and the next day he led a firefight against guerrilla fighters. As Scott Mitchell’s old friend, Oakley gained recognition as one of the best tacticians of the Green Berets and Rangers, and led countless successful missions in multiple theatres of war with little to no casualties. With mastery in all kinds of weapons that the military had to offer, Sableson became one of the most sought after soldiers in the army.

 

Like many of their brothers (and sisters), 9th Ghost Team, codenamed Spectre, were the military’s last resort and best resource, and to allow one team of the 15 to be transferred was a big deal. Either that particular mission was going sideways at 100 miles an hour, or that regiment needed extra men. A whole lot of extra men.

 

It was a quick half hour flight back to base, where Spectre immediately headed for their shared barracks and hit the showers in less than ten minutes. After spending nearly three years together on several missions with little to no privacy, the entire team had no qualms showering in the same room or sleeping on the same mattress, or even eating from the same bowl and using the same utensils. Modesty had been beaten out of them shortly after they were formed, and it saved time, both on missions and back on base.

 

Kriemhilde and Randel were on one bunk, the former picking up a Stephen King novel while the latter stared up at the ceiling of the room they commandeered. Ailen was busy tinkering with an old radio on the floor, watching Oakley as the older man answered the knock on the door.

 

“Boss wants to see you in 10,” the man behind the door reported and saluted before marching away, supposedly to fulfill his other duties.

 

“Alright kids, boss is calling,” Oakley clapped his hands twice and Kriemhilde sighed before putting her book away. Randel rolled to his feet and pulled Ailen up as he marched to the door. All four were in their rest fatigues, and spared only a moment to check their tidiness before going out the door to report to the CIC. Falling into their usual pairs, they trooped through the door, which slid open for them, and stood in formation in front of Major Scott Mitchell and General Keating. 

 

“Reporting for briefing, sir!” the four chorused and saluted in tandem.

 

“At ease,” General Keating waved his right hand and the four relaxed visibly. The General and Major Mitchell were the only ones that Spectre team could relax in front of. “As you know, you’re going to be transferred indefinitely.”

 

“Indefinitely, General?” Oakley raised a brow. “I was merely told that we’re being transferred, but not how long.” 

 

Keating glanced over to Major Mitchell, who took it as his cue to take over. 

 

Scott Mitchell stepped forward, taking four files and handed it out, “This particular part of the military is our newest and best kept secret, after ourselves the Ghosts. You may not have been in the States when this happened, but I’m pretty sure you've heard it on the news.”

 

The files were documents from the terrorist attack on Mission City.

 

“Mission City was attacked by terrorists, and the city was left in near ruins when the fight was over. At least, this is what we want the general populace to believe. In truth, the attackers were not humans at all, but robotic aliens that came down to earth,” Scott smirked at the disbelieving faces. “You may not believe me, but when you get back to your barracks, I want you to watch the vid that is in the file. In the meantime, here’re your new orders.” He picked up four large field packs from the corner of the CIC, handing them to the Spectre team who were slightly surprised at the weight. Oakley estimated that the field packs probably weighed in at around 50 pounds. What could be in there?

 

“These are your new field packs, and inside are standard military effects that a regular spec ops soldier has. You’re going in as Special Forces, not Ghosts, and you’ll have to blend in with the regular soldiers that will be there. We have information that there will be a mix of army regulars, special forces, marines, mechanics, and even airmen at the base, so we don’t want to cause a scene by having four soldiers going in with clean uniforms and no tabs whatsoever,” Scott Mitchell motioned for them to open the bag. “The packs also contain your old tabs and berets, whichever you possess. Your rank will also be sewn onto your new uniforms, dress blues, and fatigues. I want you to mix with the general populace there, and don’t draw any attention.”

 

“Scott,” Oakley spoke up when Mitchell finished speaking, “Who’s our commanding officer, who are we to answer to, and how will we operate?”

 

General Keating cleared his throat, “I will answer that.” He paced to the table and set down a slim piece of glass on the table, as small as a pager, and immediately the table top began to light up. He tapped a few holographic buttons on the screen and a picture rose up. “General Morshower will be your commanding officer for the time being until further notice, and he is one of two people who you will answer to on site. As usual, you may contact me or Mitchell if there are any orders you feel you cannot or should not carry out, and we may also contact you for other missions. However, should they assign you any missions, that will be your priority.”

 

“Who is our other commanding officer, General?” Ailen asked, flipping through his file.

 

“The leader of the robots, named Optimus Prime,” the older man answered, and Ailen nodded, satisfied. “Also, maintain your cover as regular soldiers; we don’t want rumours of our regiment going around any bases. When you’re on missions as Ghosts, I want you in full Ghost uniform, no patches, tabs, badges, name tags, in sight, and keep your identity secret. Use the voice synthesizers we use on joint missions if you have to give out orders or report, and never give out your codename when you’re not on a Ghost mission. Are we clear?”

 

“Crystal, General,” the four Ghosts saluted.

 

“Then that’ll be all. Scott will take you to the port where a chopper will be waiting for you. Einsberg,” General Keating set his eyes upon the tall woman, “The coordinates are in your file. I want you to take the team into the base quietly; blend in with the ships going into the island if you must, but don’t attract any attention.”

 

“Yes, sir. Permission to speak freely, sir?” she thumbed through the thin file and reached the page with the coordinates.

 

“Permission granted.”

 

“Why don’t we sneak in on the ship that’s going into the island base? With just the four of us in one chopper, and all of us from different branches of the military, aren’t we going to attract attention?” she met the general’s eyes evenly.

 

Scott folded his arms, “That’s true. However, there is a secret area where your chopper will be landing which isn’t in the file. When you reach the boundary line, the robots will contact you and direct you to the landing pad. That way, no one will be the wiser.”

 

“Understood, sir,” Kriemhilde saluted.

 

“Alright, you’ve got a day before we head out, so go tie up any loose ends, because you probably won’t get the chance once you’re on base. Communication is limited there, so it’s likely your cell reception is little to nil, and phone calls are permitted only once a week. I’ll pop by your barracks at 0400 tomorrow, so be ready,” Scott Mitchell nodded sharply, which the team mirrored and moved out with bags and files in hand.


End file.
